Exhaustion
by Sherlockian Dreams
Summary: Sherlock won't sleep... Just a little one shot. Let me know what you think...


Exhaustion

**Disclaimer: I do not own these wonderful characters! They belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and in this case Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. I owe them so much for bringing me Sherlock!**

_A/n: just a little story I thought of between writing __**Shadows. **__This is my second ever Fanficition and my first one shot so I really hope you like it! Please review! Let me know what you think! I hope it's not rubbish!_

As everyone close to Sherlock should know, Sherlock _will not _sleep. He just won't.

As his flatmate (and a doctor), I know this all too well.

He hates sleep because it means he has to give in to his bodily needs, and act, Heaven Forbid, human. So he thinks that it's a very bad, unnecessary thing.

This is why we are currently in this situation.

Sherlock is pacing by the window. Pacing, pacing, pacing. No pause, no falter, nothing. Just undeterred pacing. I watch him silently by my place in the armchair. It's 3.30 in the morning. I haven't got any sleep, and its Sherlock's 10th day without sleep, a new, and rather dangerous record for him.

I'm not sleeping because I'm worried to bits about him.

He looks like a Zombie, and I'm not even exaggerating. His pale skin is almost translucent, and such a stark contrast to his jet black curls. He has large, purplish, bruise-like shadows under his eyes, sticking out prominently. His eyes are slightly bloodshot too.

And it's not just his features, it's his demeanour too. He can barely walk for stumbling with fatigue. He rarely talks anymore, not even to correct the telly. He doesn't even work on cases.

He can hardly stand for wariness.

And now he is pacing, albeit slowly, and he looks as if he's about to drop dead from exhaustion.

I sigh.  
"Sherlock..."  
No answer.  
"Sherlock stop,"  
He continues to pace, making no indication at all that he'd listened to me. My eyes track his progress, noting each tiny stumble, each head nod, each eyelid flutter.  
"Sherlock..."  
"Leave me alone John,"  
It's the first time he's spoken to me all day.  
But I ignore him, get up and deliberately put myself on front of him.  
He stops for a fraction of an instant, and then goes around me.  
I groan exasperatedly.  
"For God's sake Sherlock! Just stop it!"  
He makes to swerve me again, but I move to block him. He sidesteps to the side, but I block him again.  
This little game continues for quite some time, before finally, it seems, Sherlock can't muster what little energy he has left to move.  
Instead he just stands limply, glaring down at me.  
Jesus he looks tired.  
"Sherlock you need to sleep-"  
"no I don't, I'm fine," he mumbles, his voice not coming out as harsh as he'd wanted them to.  
"Yes you do, you're dead on your feet, Sherlock!"  
"No I'm not,"  
"Sherlock," I grab his arms and force him to look at me, which he does.  
"You need... To sleep," I say, speaking deliberately slowly to make sure he heard me, which I was worried he wasn't- his eyes seemed to be closing even in this moment.  
"M fine-" he mutters, though his hands grip my arm more tightly as he struggles to keep standing.  
"Oh god Sherlock, why do you do this to yourself," I sigh exasperated and worried all at once.  
But I don't wait for an answer this time. I drag him to the sofa and push him down silently. He doesn't struggle; perhaps he is too weak to do so.  
I push him down so he is in absolutely no danger of collapsing.  
All the while, he watches me through half lidded eyes. His eyes are dim- there is none of the usual glitter in them. My heart squeezes painfully as I look at him. He looks so frail, so vulnerable, like a young, sick child waiting for comfort.  
So I sit down next to him gently and wrap my arms around him, holding him tightly.  
"John..." he mumbles, words slurred.  
"Shhh," I whisper. He doesn't say anything more.  
This is where I stay.  
I sit and I hold his wary body until I feel him give in. I feel his shoulders relax and his breathing slow and then slowly, his head droops.  
I feel it slip, sliding until it brushes my cheek, and finally settles on my shoulder. I know he'll be horrified in the morning but I smile now- not even Sherlock Holmes can resist comfort when he needs it. He's only human after all, no matter how hard he tries not to be.  
I don't move my arms, but gently, I guide him into lying position, so that his head rests on the arm instead of my shoulder. He's fast. Completely zonked out.  
And he looks so innocent- he has none of that well trained mask. Just a lovely relaxed, calm expression that makes me wonder what he's dreaming about.  
For a while I just sit and watch him sleep, feeling for the first time in 10 days, completely relaxed. And triumphant too. I know I've finally got him to sleep, and that's such a weight off my shoulders.  
So I watch him.  
Sometime after that, I gently cover him with my favourite blanket- an old one I'd used in the war. I'd never let anyone use it before. Never.  
But I let Sherlock- and he really doesn't know how honoured he is, nor will he ever.  
And then I sit in my armchair, and watch his still, peaceful figure, marvelling the complete and utter silence, until I too finally drift off to sleep, right there in the armchair.

_A/n: just a little one shot :D I really hope you liked it! Let me know what you think! X _


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